by Juniper Bell
A severance would be sweet. With a wad of cash, I could go find another job. The regular kind. I told myself to take the offer. But did I listen? I stuck out my chin at him.
“I want this job.”
Simon’s scar twitched. “I’m glad to hear it. A good receptionist is hard to find. People are under the misguided assumption that receptionist is an easy job. You know the root of the word receptionist, don’t you?”
I’d never thought about it. “Is that a job requirement?”
He seemed to smother a smile. “No, just an interesting bit of information. Receptionist comes from receive, of course. The Latin word for receive is recipere, and receptionist comes from the past participle.”
“Okay.” They didn’t teach Latin in the Long Island public school system.
Simon got slowly to his feet and came around to the front of the desk. He lifted his hand and my thoughts instantly flew to yesterday, when his hands had been all over my nipples. They tightened at the memory. But he didn’t touch me. Instead, he circled slowly around me as he talked, like a spider wrapping me in a web.
“A good receptionist must be able to receive. Receive clients, receive phone calls, receive orders. Receive pleasure.” This last was whispered into my ear. I shivered all the way to my bones. “Now, I know you are well able to receive pleasure. If I had any doubt, and I didn’t, our little encounter yesterday put that to rest. But I’m still worried. Part of you still fights me, my fiery little receptionist. Disobeys my orders. I told you to let yourself go, to stop fighting. That’s my concern.”
“I tried.” I hung my head.
“Trying isn’t quite good enough. Right now, things are a little bit lax around here because my partner, Ethan Cowell, is out of the country on business. When he comes back, I want to have a perfectly trained receptionist ready for him. So, back to my initial question, what am I to do with you?”
I could barely move, let alone speak. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out beyond a little squeak. He passed in front of me, hands behind him, pacing with his head down, as if deep in thought.
“You broke the rules, did you not?”
I nodded.
“Rule-breaking must be addressed.”
I attempted a response. “I…I won’t do it again.”
“That’s certainly reassuring. But I think I need more.” He circled around me another time. His slow, deliberate pace made me feel faint. What was going on inside that gorgeous head of his? The fact that, whatever it was, it had to do with me gave me an almost unbearable thrill. This mysterious, fascinating, gorgeous man was considering me. What to do about me. What to do with me. Or to me.
When he finally came to a stop in front of me, I realized I was holding my breath. “I need to give this some time. Get to work for now, and I’ll let you know what I’ve decided.”
That was Tuesday. I waited all day, and the next, and the next, to see what he would do. So much for sticking to business. Screw the phones. All I could think about was my mysterious punishment. I did my job like a good little girl, but inside my imagination was going nuts. Every time I saw Simon or heard his voice, my pulse raced like a crack junkie’s. The suspense was a killer. The not knowing, the guessing and imagining and wondering and anticipating was way worse than anything he could have come up with.
Or so I thought.
While I waited, my mind went into overdrive trying to figure out every little thing about him. Even though it seemed like he was in charge, he had me keep a list of phone calls to be returned once Ethan Cowell was available. Who was the boss around here, anyway? Jumping at the excuse to talk to Simon, I flagged him down as he passed my desk on his way back from lunch.
“Can I ask a quick question?”
“Of course.” He had his all-business face on, impatient and impersonal.
“What is the, um, management structure here?” I had no idea if I phrased that right. “Are you and Mr. Cowell equal partners?”
“Ethan is the senior partner. But we share in all major decisions. And most other things.”
His mouth twitched, like he was laughing at some secret joke. When I stared at him, mesmerized by the way the green of his eyes went from hard to a soft grassy sheen, he added, “Ethan’s my mentor. I owe him more than I can say.”
After that, his face closed up again and he hurried into his office, leaving behind the whiff of Worcestershire sauce and dirty martini. Steak and drinks with a client? I had to laugh at myself. Apparently all my senses had become supercharged in my hunt for clues about Simon. I picked over our little conversation all afternoon. Now I had even more questions. Who was this Ethan Cowell, and why did Simon owe him so much? And what was that secret joke, anyway?
As the week passed, I started to wonder if Simon had forgotten about my punishment. What if he had decided to stick to business? To get no closer to me than the other end of the phone line? The black hole started to open again.
Finally, on Friday morning, Simon called me into his office. I was nearly giddy with relief. Or was it anticipation? I stood in front of him like a proper Catholic schoolgirl, hands clasped, dressed in a yellow cardigan and a butterscotch plaid skirt.
“Since this is your first infraction,” he told me, “I’ve decided to give you two choices. Sound fair?”
My heart thudded. I nodded.
“Option one, you bend over my desk and I administer an old-fashioned spanking. Option two, you answer the phones in here with me for the rest of the morning.”
Hang out in Simon’s office with him? That wasn’t a punishment. That was like being sent directly to heaven, don’t pass go. Oddly, even option one didn’t sound too bad. Anything in which Simon and I were in the same place at the same time, and he was focusing his attention on me, sounded good to me.
“I choose option two,” I finally said.
Of course, I should have asked for a few more details.
“Good. Keep in mind, I reserve the right to use option one should there be a need.”
I nodded as a sudden vision of myself stretched out on the desk with Simon drawing up my skirt flashed through my mind. For a wild moment, I wanted to change my mind and pick option one. But Simon was already pulling over a chair to nestle it next to his. That chair, ordinary office furniture though it was, was where I wanted to be.
“Sit down,” he said.
I sat. He stood behind me.
“Put your hands behind your back.”
“What?”
“Go ahead. Put them behind the back of the chair. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. If it hurts, say enough. Now give me your hands.”
I couldn’t see him, but I felt him looming behind me. He put his warm hands on my shoulders and I felt something give way inside me. More than anything, I wanted to do what this man wanted. I put my hands behind my back. To make them reach all the way around the back of the chair, I had to sit very straight. He held both of my wrists in one hand and tied them together with something soft. I wriggled a little bit, trying to get comfortable. The position made me feel weirdly exposed, even though I was still completely dressed. After all, I wouldn’t be able to defend myself if I needed to.
Then again, why would I need to? Simon was there. He would take care of me.
That thought made me relax. As soon as I did, the feeling of strain in my shoulders disappeared. My position became restful. Almost dreamy. It was very quiet in the office. I had the impression time had stopped while we had our little conversation.
The phone rang, and automatically I tried to pull out my hand to answer it. He stilled my movement and leaned over me to answer it himself. I smelled the fresh scent of his morning shower and a hint of barbershop. For a moment, he dealt with whatever business it was. It seemed to be the scheduling of an appointment for next week, but to be honest, I didn’t pay much attention. I was too busy watching the way his shirt pulled tight against his torso as he bent over the desk. Black hairs peeked from under the cuff of his shirt. He had strong-looking
wrists and beautifully formed hands. On his right hand, he wore an expensive-looking platinum watch. His nails were perfectly clean. Everything about him was clean and classy and impeccable. One of his hands kept hold of my wrists while the other took up a pen.
In a trance, I watched his hand scribble a number. After he was done, he put his hands on my shoulders. I felt their weight and warmth. His hands moved down my front and unbuttoned my cardigan. My heart skipped a few beats as he peeled off the yellow cotton as if it were a banana skin. My arms were still inside the sleeves, so I felt kind of dressed, even though I was now down to my plain bra.
“I don’t ever want to see a bra like this again. Camisoles are acceptable, or any bra I decide to provide you with.”
I didn’t answer. Maybe I was too stunned by the fact he knew the word camisole. Simon Dirk was an unusual guy. I was also engrossed in watching what his hands were up to. My bra, conveniently, had a front clasp. He unfastened it and my breasts spilled out. I didn’t have to look down to know my nipples were already perking up. They seemed to do that whenever Simon was around. At first I was embarrassed, but his warm hands on my flesh relaxed me. He drew the bra behind me, so the straps pulled my shoulders back. I was now naked to the waist. He unbuckled the belt around my waist and refastened it so I was belted to the chair. When I wriggled, he tightened the belt another notch. It was so snug, I couldn’t move my upper body at all. My chest was bare down to my waist, my back straight, arms pulled back, breasts…well, you can imagine. I felt my nipples move with every constricted breath I took.
You’d think I’d be alarmed to be tied up like a Thanksgiving turkey. But no. My throat closed up from pure excitement. A ball of fire sparked to life in my belly. I shifted in my chair, wondering if he knew I had a lower half.
As if reading my mind, he turned his attention to my skirt. My legs quivered helplessly as he lifted the hem and tucked it under the belt. He gave a horrified frown when he saw my panty hose. “Never, ever, wear anything like this to work again.” Reaching his hands under me, he tugged at the hose with such a revolted expression that I felt my face flush. When they didn’t come off my body as quickly as he wanted, he opened a drawer, pulled out a pair of scissors and began snipping away at them.
Cold steel flashed against my skin, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. His focus was intense, green eyes frowning down at my body. I felt like one of those helpless assistants in a flying dagger act, with blades flinging past my head. But somehow I knew if I stayed perfectly still, if I trusted him, he wouldn’t nick me. And he didn’t. Soon my precious panty hose, which had come in an egg and cost me almost five bucks, were in shreds and tatters on the floor. The only parts left on my body were inside my boots.
Simon gave a sigh and stroked a hand along my thigh. Instantly, I felt a ball of fire flare inside me.
“Your skin is delicious. And what’s this?” He trailed his fingers across the tattoo on my inner thigh, an intricate dragonfly.
“I have a thing for dragonflies.”
“You’re an unusual girl.”
“Thanks.”
I was still wearing my underwear, and I wondered if he had plans for them. Apparently not. He left them as they were and opened another drawer. He pulled out a length of thin, silky-looking fabric. He tied one end to one of the chair legs and began wrapping the rest of it around me, starting with my legs.
“Move your legs apart,” he ordered. “More,” after I opened my legs a little. I looked up at him, about to protest, but his intense green-eyed stare made me snap my legs open even further. When they were wide enough for him, opened enough to make me feel obscenely exposed, even with my underwear, he tightly wrapped the cloth around one thigh, then around the back of the chair, to the other thigh. When he was done trussing me up, I felt like some kind of Christmas present. My legs were fastened so tightly to the chair legs that I couldn’t get them one inch closer together, as much as I tried. My arms were equally immobilized.
It was quite a feeling. My body was no longer mine to move around however I wanted. It was his. And it didn’t seem to mind. Not at all. In fact, I felt kind of dreamy and soft. My nipples, I have to admit, were hard as bullets. And secret heat surged between my thighs.
He reached back into his drawer of tricks and pulled out two silver clips. I thought they were fancy cuff links, but that didn’t make sense because they were headed for my tits. I watched, in fascinated dread, as he pulled apart the two ends of one clip and fastened it on my right nipple. Oh my sweet lord. Was it painful? It ought to be, I knew, and probably it was, but my body didn’t seem to think so. My pussy instantly got wet. My nipple throbbed. Then he attached a clip to the other nipple. Holy crap. I’d never felt anything like it in my life. No wonder Bobby O used to tell me to pierce my nipples.
My breath came in big gasps. And every move of my ribcage sent a lightning flash straight from nipple to pussy.
“Now,” he said. “Use this headset to answer the calls.”
Answer the calls? How was I supposed to do that when I could barely breathe?
“Give me a nod if it’s a call I need to take. Got it?”
If Simon wanted it, I’d try. I nodded then stilled my head so he could position the headset properly. He pulled my chair close to his, turned away and began working at his computer. It felt unbelievably strange to be sitting so upright, but unable to move. Impossibly weird to have my legs spread apart and my breasts thrust out, silver clips at their tips, while trying to use my most professional voice on the phone.
Amazingly, my voice worked just fine. Like the rest of me, my voice did whatever Simon asked. I kept thinking the callers would know. Wouldn’t they be able to tell from my voice that I was tied to a chair?
The first couple of calls went fine, but on call number three, Simon upped the ante.
“Good morning, Cowell and D—” I broke off. Simon’s left hand snaked over from his computer keyboard and fastened itself to the clip on my right nipple. He squeezed with a deliberate touch that put me into an instant sexual frenzy. I squeaked, then tried to resume my phone manner. “Cowell and Dirt, I mean, Cowell and Dirk, may I help you?” When I said the word ‘dirt’, Simon tweaked me hard. Shocked, my body jumped against my bonds. He continued to fondle my breast until the call was over. Then he went back to work, as if nothing had happened.
OMG. My heart raced, I felt like a hummingbird was trapped in my throat. I was so aroused I could barely stand it. What would he do next? I sat bound to my chair, pulse pounding, waiting for the next call. It came a few moments later. Once again, as soon as I answered, Simon’s warm hand was on my breast. I flinched, but this time he smoothed my flesh with a caressing touch. I made no mistakes and he refrained from pulling on the nipple clips.
I calmed down, and started wondering what the rules were. The next call, to test him, I stumbled on the word morning. Sure enough, he fiercely pinched my nipple, squeezing hard until the end of the call. When it clicked off, I was panting and squirming. So that’s what it was. If I screwed up a call, I’d get tormented. To test my theory, I handled the next call perfectly. Wrong. As I informed the caller that Simon would call him back shortly, Simon scraped his thumbnail against the edge of the nipple clip until I had to bite back a scream.
So that was it. There were no rules. It was Simon Says.
The strangest feeling took over. Part anxious anticipation of the next call and of what Simon might do. Beyond that, a feeling of suspended animation, as if I didn’t exist unless I was answering the phone and getting my nipples fondled. It reminded me of the floaty feeling I get under Bobby O’s tattoo needles. When the phone was quiet, I burned for another call. But all I could do was wait. All I could do was receive.
When the next call came in, Simon didn’t touch my breasts. Instead, he squeezed my inner thigh, high up, close to my crotch. The surprise shift made me stutter. Instantly, he dug his fingers deeper into my flesh. Heat flashed in my pussy. I thrilled to the strength of his hand. The call
ended and he released me. I tried to calm my breathing, but I couldn’t get my heart to stop racing. What would he do next with those devil hands?
For the rest of the morning, he kept me guessing. Sometimes it would be my breasts, sometimes my thighs. Sometimes he seemed more focused on his work and merely traced slow circles on the skin of my inner thigh. One time he inserted his finger into my belly ring and tugged until the call ended—just in time before I let loose an uncontrollable moan.
I began to develop a kind of automatic response to the sound of the phone ringing. It had one of those bland, muffled office rings. Bee-boop, high tone, low tone. As soon as I’d hear that bee-boop, my body sprang to attention. My breath sped up, my skin prickled, my face flushed. An eternity would stretch between the bee-boop and the landing of Simon’s hand on my body. Whichever part of my body was the chosen target would flame gratefully at his touch. Nothing else existed but the feel of his palm moving across my skin, or his fingers delving into my flesh, pinching my nipples, exploring my thighs.
He circled near my crotch, but never touched it. It burned for him, believe me. To my embarrassment, on its own accord, it tried to entice his hand for a visit. Without my permission, my hips tried to push forward to touch his hand as it passed by. But I was so tightly secured to the chair I could only produce little helpless twitches, little pulses of need. He ignored my attempts and touched me wherever he decided to. My desires didn’t seem to be a factor in his decision.
After a morning of this, I felt like a burning, crackling pool of lava. My skin was so sensitized that little hairs would rise on my body at the approach of his hand. My nipples were ridiculously, impossibly swollen under the clips. I was afloat in a trance of alternating anticipation and pleasure. I’d lost all sense of time and didn’t realize the morning had passed until Simon took the headset off my head.
“Lunchtime. Now, let’s see.” For the first time, he put his hand to my underwear and tugged aside the crotch with two fingers. Sliding them under the fabric, he felt my pussy, which I knew was wet and slick. When he pulled out his fingers and saw them glisten in the office lights, he gave a satisfied smile. “I believe you’ve paid for your infraction.” He untied me. “One more thing. Do not touch yourself or satisfy yourself until I give you the go-ahead. Understand?”
